


The Second Diary

by stolenfaye



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anger Management, Canon Compliant, Egypt, Family Feels, Recovery, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stolenfaye/pseuds/stolenfaye
Summary: After her first disastrous year at Hogwarts, Ginny has been whisked away to Egypt by family who tries to help her. The last time she wrote in a diary, the worst days of her life had followed. But she needs to try again.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	The Second Diary

Maybe it was the heat or the magic of the place, but the sky over Cairo reminded Ginny of the perfect china cups Auntie Muriel kept locked away in her china cabinet. Hogwarts and home were many things, but you just couldn’t get a blue like this back home. 

After a few mumbled failures, she managed to tell her mother about the china cups. They were in the hotel, and the smells of simmering meats and sauces filled the air. The brothers were crowded with dad around a snake charmer— a man Ginny couldn’t go near even if she wanted to— and she finally had her mother’s ear. 

“That’s a very pretty observation,” Molly said with some surprise. She glanced at the nearest window, where the sky was rather dark. 

Pink, Ginny said, “I meant, in the daytime.” 

“Speak up, dearie,” Molly had to bite down the impatience in her voice. The St. Mungo healer had said that Ginny had no physical ailment, but that she would suffer under harshness. 

Indeed, Ginny only seemed to get quieter and pinker. Molly leaned close until she finally heard. Mother and daughter regarded each other, inches away from each other in this foreign, yet exhilarating place. Then Molly said, “You say the most interesting things sometimes.” 

“Do you really think so?” Ginny asked, looking anywhere but at her mother’s eyes. 

“I do. Other people ought to hear them.” 

“I’m too quiet.” 

“Not when you’re arguing over the best broom,” Molly chuckled, patting Ginny’s hand. 

They turned to watch the boys shouting over the snake, some of them passing sickles to each other. Molly was shaking her head, about to comment that sometimes she wished the boys were as thoughtful as her daughter when Ginny piped, “Mum, I think I want a diary.” 

The word seemed to suck all the noise, laughter, and air from the room. 

“Another one.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Her daughter’s eyes were big as saucers, already wet, already blinking furiously, but she held her mother’s gaze. Molly barely breathed, aware that there was a tiny flame before her, and fearful that she might blow it out with the merest exhalation. 

Then she nodded. “Your father and I will go out looking in the shops today.” 

That night, she thought she’d swallowed a snitch, her heart was beating so wildly. The roar of the Weasley brothers receded into mere background noise as Ginny sat by the open window of their hotel suite. 

Everyone had said that they were going to Egypt to visit Bill, but the way that everyone kept sneaking glances at her made her think differently. No one had expected that her first year at Hogwarts would have led to a near-death experience. Ginny, who prided herself on being bold, funny, and clever, had been tricked, humiliated, and drained of life. 

It had been nice to see Bill, though. And Charlie had used vacation time to join them at the portkey point. Hugging all of her family together for the first time in years, felt like being wrapped in a yarn blanket that smelled like home. With Ginny at the center, there had been no way for her brothers to stare at her, tease her, or point out how drawn she looked. There was just warmth, and the tight squeeze of dragon-taming, food-cooking, Muggle-loving, game-playing, broom-riding, curse-breaking, letter-writing family. 

After that initial get-together, there was room for awkwardness, for thinking, but at least no one made fun of her. They mostly left her alone, and that was probably for the best. 

The air outside was dry, cool, and strangely still. The stars overhead were numerous, distant, and seemed to promise heat from eons away. They spun in a blue darkness, as rich and real as a velvet curtain. 

Velvet made her think of Aunt Muriel, but it also made her think of Professor McGonagall, because of her robes. Ginny thought of the way the Professor had looked at her at the end of last term: the tiny smirk that Ginny had thought she had spied when McGonagall had returned a good paper, or when she’d told off Finch-Fletchley for teasing a Ravenclaw girl. That tiny smirk had been warped, tinged with sadness. As if she weren’t merely saying, _Good on you, girl,_ but, _You made it. You’re alive._

Ginny’s fingers convulsed around her teacup. The heat of it bit the ends of her fingers, and she worried her lip. Something trembled through her, spreading that heat up her arms and down her back, flushing her face. Anger? 

Shame?

She thought she could blow up this room. She looked around at the kitchy statues of cats and pyramids on the shelves, at Errol’s old cage, the books, the duffel bags, and she imagined them being ripped to shreds. She had torn a room apart before. 

No. Not enough. 

She could disapparate to nowhere. 

She could scatter the splinched pieces of herself across the sandy hills and streets of this place, and maybe this boundless feeling, this rampant heat in her bones would disperse. She could—

“Ginny?” 

It was Mum at the door. She looked scared. 

All at once, the heat, the anger, and the magic was sucked out of her. It was somewhere else. She knew it waited for her, behind a door inside a dream. Objects clattered around Ginny, and a high tinkle from outside the window drew her attention. The window had cracked, and a piece had fallen out. 

She turned back to her mother, who had entered the room. She was clutching a rectangular, brown-paper package in pink hands. “Maybe you shouldn’t be alone,” she said, not quite meeting Ginny’s eyes. 

But alone was where she didn’t feel the gaze of others, the expectations, and the disappointment. Alone, the only person she could hurt was herself. 

The words didn’t come, however, and Molly was crossing the room, and then hugging her before she could find any words at all. And then she was hugging her mother back. 

They let go all at once, and before either could take in a really good breath for the sob to come out, Molly pressed the package into Ginny’s hands. “The picture made me think of you. We bought it from a man who breeds horses. Arthur said we could go riding for a day. Would you like that?”  
The journal was leather with an embossed image of an Arabian horse, tossing its long neck. It stamped and reared before her, defiant. _Catch up,_ it seemed to say. 

“We can ride them?” Ginny said, looking up at her mother. It hurt her to see how red Molly’s eyes were, but she was smiling and nodding. 

“We can afford it.” 

Then Ginny was nodding, and they hugged again. 

“I’ve got to order dinner, but your brothers want to play chess, so we’re all going to sit together while we wait. You come and write down your pretty observations, Ginny. You don’t need to sit in silence to write.” 

It was easier to let her mother make this decision for her. Why fight it? She nodded, and clutched it to her, and followed her into the living room, where the Weasleys were all assembled. Percy passed her his quill, not looking up from his summer homework. Bill moved a pillow off of the armchair by the fire. Charlie set down a plate of dates on the coffee table. Ron put the chessboard down next to these and settled onto the floor. Fred sat opposite him. George sat next to him and leaned against Ginny’s armchair after setting a bottle of ink onto the coffee table as well. Arthur turned on the lamp on the wall nearby, throwing the journal into relief against the deepening shadow of night. 

The call to prayer sang through the night air. The first page yawned before her like some maw, ready to swallow up her words. 

She took a date. She dipped the quill. _You can’t get a blue like this in England..._


End file.
